


chasin' their tails tryna track us down

by aliciaxadrienne



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Spy!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:44:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciaxadrienne/pseuds/aliciaxadrienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's all red curved smiles and kitten heels while he's all red hair and obsessed with her actual cats.<br/>((Taylor's a recent graduate from a prestigious spy academy and Michael is her protégé.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not A Chance

**Author's Note:**

> this idea popped into my head and i'm sort of infatuated with it now.

Another mission gone completely wrong because of that fucking Clifford kid.

Honestly, Taylor was getting real sick of seeing his stupid face at every. single. one. of her jobs, especially because it was so goddamn difficult to know it was indeed him with all the rapidfire hair changes. He couldn’t be more than eighteen, yet Taylor herself had seen him with at least four different hair colors she could remember. 

She was a recent graduate of one of the most prestigious academies London had to offer- cleverly named Spyandria- and yet the “student” Taylor had the misfortune of getting assigned with was more of a leech than anything else. He repeatedly proved to be just another roadblock from her to international status. Knowing how some of her former professors felt about her, Taylor didn’t doubt that they had cherry-picked Michael out of the crowd of potential students because they knew how difficult he was. Personally, Taylor believed he belonged in a community college back in Australia or wherever the hell he originated from.

Colorful language wasn’t really her thing (unless she was songwriting in the privacy of her apartment but she refused to let anyone know about that), especially the explicit kind, but he just made her so fucking mad that one day with him led her to swear like a sailor. The blonde didn’t even know she knew that many expletives. 

The reason this time had gotten her annoyed in particular was because it was being carefully monitored by the agency that had expressed clear interest in hiring her, more than a semester before her graduation date. Taylor didn’t have a single classmate that had come anywhere close to that honor. Her parents had been beyond ecstatic, and her brother Austin had kneeled over in complete disbelief that the same girl who had cried hysterically when their first cat died had managed to push her way to the Dean’s list at the most academically challenging universities around.

But of course, Michael Clifford had ruined it. 

Sometimes she was almost okay with his presence. Sometimes he made her laugh when she was concerned too much with formalities. Sometimes he would do something that was pretty intelligent, making her question why he was being forced to serve time as her student intern. Sometimes she would look at him a little too long after she dismissed him and he’d look almost hurt and she’d feel almost bad. Most of the time, though, Taylor thought Michael was a nuisance.

This one particular night, she had been asked to retrieve some information from the McMansion of Mrs. Georgia McSweeny, a recent widow. The risk was relatively minimal for something that could determine her future employment, but verbalizing any complaints would be counterproductive. Not to mention the fact that Taylor had specifically given Michael the night off, giving her no one to babysit. 

At eleven thirty two she had entered the premises, skirting along the outer perimeter in her favorite heels, graceful like the swan she knew she was. McSweeny wasn’t even in the country, embarking on a sudden trip to the States to dispute a legal matter. Getting rid of the guards that were on watch was going to be child’s play, as it appeared two of them were already napping at their posts. Amateurs.

The relief that floods her 5’11’’ frame when she steps into the room with the information- a library from of the looks of it- is immediate. There aren’t any defenses up, no lasers or tripwires. Good, this isn’t a 90s Sunday morning cartoon. Taylor tiptoes her way to the computer, sliding her always handy USB into the appropriate slot. While she waits, she wanders around the library. This particular mansion is unfamiliar to her, but they all start to look the same after a while anyways. 

The USB makes a low beeping noise and Taylor jumps at the chance to get out already. She’s got the fourth season of Gilmore Girls ready on Netflix and she hasn’t been home to feed Meredith all day as a result of the study group she foolishly agreed to lead. Honestly, she’s already graduated but she still has to deal with all the politics and power plays of her younger classmates to avoid being called ungrateful.

The guards from earlier are still knocked out cold from the miniscule amount of sleeping serum Taylor had given them, so she waltzes right past with no issue. The real problem comes when she heard someone singing from the first floor. Their voice is just quiet enough that if she wasn’t in tip top mental health, Taylor would be convinced it was just another melody floating through her head. But this was unmistakably someone else’s rhythm; the notes they were humming were not evenly spaced, not to mention the amount of energy put into not getting caught left little available for songs. 

Without a second to spare, Taylor’s on the second floor balcony overlooking the foyer, right on schedule as expected. She smirks and rests some of her weight on the railing for a second or two, allowing herself to soak in another victory.

She’s just about to swing her grappling hook over to the opposite end of the foyer when a hand clamps around her mouth and another arm pulls her waist back into the shadows. Reaching one manicured hand up, Taylor twists the pinkie finger of her abductor forwards, tugs on one strand of hair and darts back to the railing, successfully hooking her escape window and getting out before she has time to hear any complaints. 

Her car is only a few blocks away, so she runs, still clutching the USB in one hand. Taylor slides into the driver’s seat of her Rolls Royce (a graduation present; she’d never waste that much money on something so easily destroyed) but immediately realizes something is wrong when the cat food she had left on the passenger’s seat is ripped open, like someone had gone searching through it. “What the f-”

For the second time in the past twenty minutes, she’s being pulled backwards, out of the car, and thrown over someone’s shoulder like it’s nothing. Taylor scratches at the back of her abductor and her arms are itching to give them a nice chokehold, but at this particular point in time, it’d be counterproductive, so she bides her time.

God she really hates being upside down. Everything is topsy turvy and not to mention, all she can see is the practically concave and way too familiar ass of a certain idiot. He finally sets her down, and Taylor glances at the strand of hair she’s been holding onto every since he blindsided her in the foyer. Red. It’s like he wants to get caught. No, it’s like he wants her to get caught and him get away scot-free, like always.

“In fourteen seconds, that car of yours is going to go up in flames,” Michael huffs matter-of-factly, hands on his hips, and Taylor wants to punch him in the fucking face. He doesn’t deserve a chokehold, those are too time-consuming and it would take longer to leave a bruise. There is no way anyone could ever rig her car with an explosive, she was always perfectly careful and kept it well hidden, plus the insurance on it was sky high-

The Royce explodes, and Taylor lets out an exasperated yell, throwing her arms in the air. In a rush of emotion, she barrels forward into Michael and has him on the ground before the flames have really started getting intense. 

“You are something else,” Michael says, still catching his breath, and it sounds hyper-analytical, like he’s seeing her differently. She can only just barely see the outline of his face, long eyelashes framing stupidly pretty eyes. Taylor’s always been enraged by the fact that perfectly good eyelashes go to waste on boys that don’t know how to use them. The fact that it’s Michael just makes it ten times worse.

He’s still got that cocky grin on his face, like he’s in the position of power here, and hasn’t got a stiletto on his chest. She watches as his eyes dart to her lips and back up to her face. Michael’s always been a horny bastard, after since the first day they met and he asked Taylor point blank “what sort of extra credit was available” even though it was pretty obvious that’s not how she operated.

“So I’ve been told,” Taylor replies, refusing to even look at him because this is not how her night was supposed to go, life being saved by a toothpick six years younger than her with dyed red hair. If she really wanted to, she could have thrown out of the academy for interceding on her mission unlawfully, but she doesn’t feel like going through the hassle of filing a complaint. 

Taylor starts power walking away, certain she can convince some poor shmuck to give her a ride back to her apartment. If anything goes wrong, there’s a reason she’s got a blade hidden in the sole of her stiletto. 

“If you wanted to move faster, you could always take the shoes off!” 

She almost smiles a little, throwing up her middle finger and swinging her hips a little more. “Not a chance, Clifford.”


	2. Your Harem of Idiotic Freshmen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love this story so much, oh my god.  
> that's all i really have to say. i just love writing maylor.

Taylor was not fond of spending another two hours in a business meeting, especially on a Friday, but alas, as a result of being accepted by the agency she no longer had control over her schedule.

It was a small price to pay for guaranteed job security for life and a chance to prove herself.

She was currently sitting on a suede couch in a studio apartment owned by her new boss, a 5’0’’ manic-pixie type brunette with the codename Krin. Taylor’s legs were gingerly crossed at the ankles, right hand wrapped around a wine glass filled a quarter of the way, left hand leafing through a file Krin’s assistant had given her. It’s comfortably silent while she rapidly attempts to read as much as she can in as little time as possible.

“Now, Taylor,” Krin breaks the silence, looking slightly apologetic, “for this mission, you’re going to have to attend a dinner party as a character we have already selected for you.” Taylor nods. She’s done some acting before, been in a few school plays before attending Spyandria and took meticulous notes in every single class, including the lectures on blending in to an environment. 

The assistant from before lays out a second file before Taylor, this one has glossy pages and several IDs, with her likeness, lined up. Clearly this agency knew she wouldn’t refuse the job. She notes that this woman she’s portraying- a socialite named Cassandra Smirf- is twenty-six and married to a David Smirf. 

“Will I be meeting my David?” Taylor asks, semi-jokingly. Truth be told, she’d prefer to work alone. If you want something done right, do it yourself, and all that.

Krin nods excitedly, and flips through the file on Cassandra to a second section held together with a paper clip. “We actually were contacted by a volunteer, which normally we don’t accept here, but this man is just exceptional, a perfect match for this case, really.” She taps a manicured fingernail on a photo ID labeled David Smirf. Taylor’s eyes wander analytically over each and every detail, before settling on the snapshot. Her arms tense and she jolts upright just as Krin instructs her assistant to let David in.

Motherfucking Michael Clifford walks in, wearing a stupidly unprofessional plaid button and dark wash skinny jeans. His hair looks like, to be frank, he just finished having sex with one of those girls he’s always bragging about. Taylor grits her teeth together as he sits unnecessarily close to her on the already small couch.

“This has got to be a joke,” Taylor gets out between her teeth, “is there anyone else capable of handling the job?” She can feel the warmth radiating off of Michael, who has laid an arm on the back of the couch since sitting down, clearly not shy about making himself comfortable.

Krin purses her lips, looks unnaturally displeased for someone so adorable. “If you’re uncomfortable with Mr. Clifford, we can have another agent complete the mission with him.” She moves, sliding the paperwork into her bag.

Taylor groans, lurching forward and catching the wrist of her boss. “No! No, absolutely not, it won’t be an issue.”

The brunette smiles, and Taylor sees Michael grin from beside her, mouth just as lopsided as his posture. “Brilliant, the dinner is in nine hours.”

After signing paperwork, Taylor thanks Krin for her time and bolts as fast as she can, without looking unhinged, for the elevator. Ultimately her efforts don’t matter because Michael is next to her before the elevator even dings.

“How you doing, blondie?” He questions, and Taylor assumes it’s rhetorical. Michael has never been terribly concerned with her feelings on any matter.

The elevator dings and they both step in, standing at opposite sides of the empty lift. Michael’s still staring at her, although now the asshole is biting his lip. “I asked you a question.”

Taylor digs around in her purse, retrieves her nail file, and inspects her nail beds. 

Michael sighs, drawn-out and overdramatic. “I took this job for you, you know.”

She allows him an empty laugh. “I am truly honored that you could tear yourself away from your harem of idiotic freshmen long enough to sign up for this mission.”

Hurt flashes through his eyes briefly, and Taylor feels a pang of regret, but ignores it.

The doors open on the ground floor of Krin’s apartment building and suddenly Taylor has a million questions for the redhead beside her, most revolving around how the hell he got the job. He’s still a student at Spyandria, and those without a degree are only allowed to take on jobs in very special occasions.

But she doesn’t say anything, just exits the building and goes her separate ways from Michael, drives off in her rental car.

A few hours later her phone buzzes with a message. She’s not in a rush to talk about her lack of a boyfriend with her best friend Selena, so she continues moseying around her room for five minutes before finally unlocking her iPhone to see a message from an unknown number.

 **UNKNOWN**  
t-minus four hours until showtime, wifey. i’ll pick you up at eight  
 **TAYLOR**  
how did you get my number??

 **UNKNOWN**  
magic

Taylor goes to walk away from her phone, annoyed, but it vibrates again. Her ringtone seems louder and more piercing now that she knows who the messages are from.

 **UNKNOWN**  
a surprising amount of girls at school want us to get together

 **TAYLOR**  
is that so, clifford?

 **UNKNOWN**  
yeah, and we can’t let our fans down

 **TAYLOR**  
we most certainly can, and will, do just that.

 **TAYLOR**  
if you’re not here at eight on the button, i’m going to this dinner myself and saying david died in a tragic accident.

Satisfied, she throws her phone onto her comforter. It’s only four pm, so there isn’t anything demanding her immediate attention, and to start getting ready for the dinner several hours before their presence is necessary seems a little much, even to Taylor. 

So she decides to do some research on Michael, instead, but after wasting half an hour on his social media, Taylor grows sick of seeing the same five tweets worded differently over and over (“going to a party with @SomeRandomFemale,” “that football game was fuckin’ nuts!” to name a couple) and closes her macbook with a chagrined scowl on her face.

Michael was nothing to her, but she couldn’t deny that he was attractive, and that she wished she could be airheaded enough to get involved with him, just once.

By six pm Taylor is nearly ripping her hair out with nerves. The mission itself didn’t seem challenging, after all, she was merely investigating and retrieving data. There was no chance of danger because, besides impersonation, she wouldn’t be doing anything wrong. 

But now Taylor had to look after Michael and make sure that he understood they weren’t supposed to do any harm.  
Instead of allowing her head to go haywire with nervousness, Taylor focuses on dolling herself up. She pulls her favorite cocktail dress, a deep chardonnay color, from the back of her closet. It still fit perfectly, even though she hadn’t worn it since her graduation celebration. Underneath, she wore her favorite white lace lingerie set, indulging in the small things that made her feel a little more in control and bad ass.

Since Cassandra had dark, chocolately brown hair, Taylor pulls the temporary dye she had grabbed at the pharmacy out of a plastic bag and read the instructions. She suddenly wished she had Michael with her, because this was very unfamiliar territory to her, but practically routine to him. 

At 7:45, Taylor perches herself on her kitchen counter with a fruit parfait and bobs her head along to the 1975 album playing over her loud speakers. Her phone vibrates, charging in preparation for the undoubtedly long night ahead.

 **UNKNOWN**  
you almost ready for me baby?

 **TAYLOR**  
that’s highly unprofessional michael

 **UNKNOWN**  
but i’m your husband!

 **TAYLOR**  
keep it up and you’ll be my ex husband.

Taylor sighs when she hears her doorbell ring. There’s no reason for anyone to be coming over; she had given everyone the excuse that she was ill and not up for going out, or studying, or anything else they had in mind. 

**UNKNOWN**  
i’m here, are you going to let me in?

Her heart skips a beat, and she reprimands her subconscious for the action before blaming it on the mission getting the best of her. Taylor takes her time walking to her door, then looks through the peephole. 

Michael’s standing at her door in a tuxedo with roses.

She tries to hold back a laugh, and is still in the process of stifling the giggle when she opens the door. Taylor notices shock registering on his face and tries not to feel proud of herself.

“You look stunning, Taylor.”

She chooses not to respond, partially because she doesn’t know what to say when he’s not being a smug asshole. The other part of her doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing she appreciates the compliment.

“You do know this isn’t a date, right?”

He nods, sheepishly, looking more like the eighteen year old boy he is than Taylor’s ever seen him look before. 

“Okay, well I guess you can come in for a minute while I put these in water..” Her voice trails off as he walks past her. Is that.. cologne? The door shuts of it’s own accord behind them and Taylor is suddenly aware of the three dishes she hasn’t washed yet that are just hanging out in the sink.

It only takes her a minute to put the roses in water and place them on the dinner table, but she’s still surprised to see that Michael hasn’t made himself at home, but is rather just standing in the middle of her living room, staring at her music collection.

“You like The Neighbourhood?” He asks, turning to meet her eyes.

“Of course I do, I don’t spend all my time listening to pop music.” Taylor retorts, rolling her eyes. She’s glad to regain her footing in this game with Michael. For a second she was worried he had drawn her in like a bug trapped in his web.

She grabs her purse off of the couch, makes sure she has her key and all of her equipment, in case of an emergency that she isn’t expecting but must be prepared for.

“Alright, let’s go.” 

Taylor is pleasantly shocked to find that Michael isn’t that bad of a driver. He keeps his eyes on the road and lets her sing along to the radio as loud as she wants, and even compliments her on her voice once or twice. She almost has to remind herself that this isn’t a date, it feels so different compared to all her other interactions with him.

When there’s only about ten minutes left before they reach their destination, Taylor turns her body in towards the center console and drums her fingers absentmindedly. “You have all your details memorized, right?”

Michael rolls his eyes, but nods. “I’m fully prepared for this reconnaissance work, I promise you.”

Taylor laughs, and play-acts like she’s floored with amazement. “That is a 10 point word, Clifford! I didn’t know you had such an expansive vocabulary.”

“That’s not the only thing big about me,” He mumbles under his breath, and for both their sakes, she pretends not to hear him.

A couple minutes later, the GPS beeps and Michael turns right into one of the longest driveways Taylor has ever seen. The mansion, while nothing special by itself, is decked out in an incredible light display, with what must be hundreds of thousand of colored light bulbs. Taylor holds her breath in amazement, looks over at Michael, who is already studying her face. He blushes, runs a hand through his hair that he has tamed for the occasion, and focuses his eyes on the long line of cars in front of them.

When the valet takes his car, Michael introduces himself and Taylor as the Smirfs. The man nods, smiles at Taylor, and points them to the front door, guarded by a well-groomed, middle aged man. “Names?”

“David and Cassandra Smirf,” Michael thunders, his voice sounding deeper (and more attractive) than Taylor cares to admit.

When they’re let inside, Michael puts a hand around Taylor’s waist, and leans in to whisper in her ear. 

“Showtime, darling.”


	3. Cares About Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY FOR A NEW CHAPTER this one's got smut yay  
> (because interest for maylor fics is so low, i have no idea if or when i'm really going to update this. so feedback to my tumblr (heldontootight) or comments would be very much appreciated for motivation!! i do have some inspiration for future chapters)

When they’re let inside, Michael puts a hand around Taylor’s waist, and leans in to whisper in her ear. 

“Showtime, darling.”

She shivers, tries to hide it by rubbing her bare shoulders and complaining about rich people not heating their homes properly, but the grin on Michael’s face tells Taylor he knows the effect he just had on her.

She fucking hates him. 

Within a minute of crossing the threshold, they’re already ushered into a conversation by someone Taylor knows isn’t important. All afternoon she read files on socialites who would be at this party, and this frumpy looking, slightly cross-eyed thirty year old woman in a poorly fitted pink gown does not fit any profile. She tries to pay attention, but can’t help the fact that her eyes keep continuously scanning the room for someone more useful.

Michael gently traces a finger along the inseam of Taylor’s gown before pinching the fabric at her waist. She looks at him, infuriated. “Clara asked you a question, darling,” He says, sickeningly smooth. His finger goes back to tracing patterns along her waist.

“I’m sorry, there’s a lot on my mind at the moment,” Taylor smiles, and Clara accepts the apology graciously.

“David was just telling me you recently found out you’re pregnant,” Taylor sees Michael try to hide a smirk next to her, “and I was curious as to what names you had in mind? Pardon the intrusion, but I’m always so interested in that kind of thing, since I’ve never been able to have children of my own.” Clara takes a deep breath, leans in closer to the pair, “My husband was a bit of an asshole and could never get it up, anyways.”

Taylor takes the opportunity Clara has given her by rambling on about her past marriage problems to control herself.

She has to physically restrain herself from slapping her supposed husband across the face. A fake pregnancy was not on Cassandra’s file and Taylor certainly was not prepared with baby names. Certainly someone of Cassandra’s status could not say that, though, so she tries to run through some of her favorite people and see how their names sound alongside Smirf.

“I was considering Audrey, but David doesn’t like it,” Taylor pouts her bottom lip. If Michael’s going to put her on the spot, then she’s going to make him look like the villainous husband with ulterior motives. “He said it reminds him of an old flame.” She pauses, tilts her head to the side as if considering something. “Not really old. You were with Audrey last year, when I was on that trip, weren’t you, darling?”

Clara says something but Taylor ignores it, instead focuses on the way Michael’s lips form “She’s joking, there’s never been anyone for me but her.” They’re such a pretty pink. He’s got such a pale neck, as well. She wouldn’t mind biting the skin on the column, then lathering her tongue over the mark as he complains about having to hide the evidence of their tryst. In a moment of weakness, she considers dragging him to the undoubtedly fancy bathroom to have her way with him, and then leaving, and forgetting all about it.

Shut the fuck up before you ruin the mission. 

Beside her, Michael is still talking to Clara, probably doing damage control or changing the subject. When Taylor zones back in, they’re talking about some mining company Clara has money invested in. She’s well aware that Michael has no clue about anything to do with mining, or investments for that matter, so she tugs on his arm as a means of rescuing him from the conversation.

He looks over at her, and she’s startled by the nearly unnoticeable look of adoration in his eyes. Fuck, he’s stellar at this. 

“We should go talk to Gerard, he insisted he be the first to know.”

Michael nods vigorously, and she has to give him credit for not being slow on the uptake. 

They’re here scouting for information, but that doesn’t mean they can’t have any fun while they’re out. Cinderella isn’t so eager to go back to her rags, after all.

\----------------------------------------

After finding Gerard (the only name Taylor could remember from the files she read,) engaging in a semi decent conversation starter and sharing the good news with him, Michael starts grumbling about how hungry he is. Taylor ignores him as he lists off what they could possibly be having for dinner at such a large mansion, and with so many people.

“They’re not going to be serving pizza as the main course, so I’m sure whatever it is will disappoint you.” Taylor laughs and rubs her hand lovingly over his shoulder blades, still keeping the facade up even though she’s certain everyone is convinced they’re the touchiest married couple ever. Gerard had even asked if they were newlyweds.

 

After getting away from Gerard, Michael insists that they dance. There’s a few couples already on the floor, as well as Clara, who is alone. She waves enthusiastically to Taylor, who returns the gesture half-heartedly. Michael laughs, hides his head on her shoulder.

“Do you even know how to dance?” Taylor asks, going to judge him regardless of his answer.

“I looked up a couple tutorials on YouTube, so I’d consider myself an expert.” Michael makes a big deal out of twirling Taylor around in a simple circle, then rests his right hand back where it temporarily belongs for the evening. “Didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Please tell me how you got this job,” Taylor giggles after Michael’s legs spasm when someone bumps into them. It’s honestly still a mystery to her. He’s not especially graceful and his connections are limited to, well, her.

“I merely told your agency I was interested in the job,” Michael shrugs, “and they interviewed me the next day. There was no big song and dance, although that may have been enjoyable.” He chuckles.

Taylor sweeps her hair over her shoulder, still not used to the dark color. “How did you know that I was in negotiation to get involved?”

“I didn’t, until they told me this morning. Then I was fully on board.”

She’s annoyed by the lucky streak Michael’s had lately. It’s certainly not fair to her. Maybe if he hadn’t been put on this particular job, Taylor would already be home in her footie pajamas by now. 

Michael interrupts her thoughts by brushing a hand over the corner of her mouth. She stares at him questionably. “Your lipstick was smeared, made you look less than flawless.” Taylor feels her lips curl at the corners from the cheesiness of the situation. She’s two-stepping in a circle with a fake redhead that most definitely has been putting the moves on her for months. 

“Do you honestly expect me to believe you care about my appearance?” Taylor tries not to make it obvious that the conversation they’re having is not exactly one that of a married couple. “Or me, in general?” It’s actually more like they’re middle schoolers at a dance. He’s even holding her like there’s a teacher walking around shouting for there to be a foot of space between them. 

“Well, yeah, because I do.” Michael lowers his hand from the corner of her mouth back to her waist. “I may be a lot of unsavory things, but I’m not a liar, sweetheart.”

“When we first met, you tried to convince me you were twenty.”

“You were convinced!”

“Up until you started talking about pokemon, maybe I was.” Taylor rolls her eyes. “Just a little.”

A few minutes later, a lady in a black lace gown (Taylor makes a mental note to invest in one of those, they are so beautiful and fragile looking, yet fierce, much like herself) with a champagne glass in her hands insists that everyone finds their seats at their assigned tables in the dining room. Taylor already has memorized the names, birthdays, family members, allergies, and other important information of everyone sitting at their table.

Michael guides her to table 13, hand on the small of her back. She tries not to cringe away from it, even though they are far too close for her comfort. She’s annoyed with herself for hanging all over Michael as much as she has.

He introduces himself to everyone at the table while he holds Taylor’s chair out for her. She smiles softly and allows him to coddle her for the moment. It is, after all, the gentlemanly thing to do. Cassandra is beautiful, not fierce. She is also pregnant and wildly in love with her husband, Taylor reminds herself.

The appetizer and first course go by without incident. Taylor begins to lull herself into a false sense of security, maybe even pictures herself attending a dinner party like this as Taylor Swift, famous one day for being one of the most internationally well-known spies the United States has ever produced.

She should have known better than to expect the comfortable silence on her hand to last the entire meal. Clara, who by some grace of God was seated at their table, starts chatting mindlessly about recent events in her household. For a couple moments Taylor is happy to listen, even if she’s irritated with the woman’s constant presence. 

Then she feels Michael’s hand on her thigh.

“What are you doing, Michael?” Taylor whispers, hiding behind her hair.

“Who’s Michael?” He whispers back, still staring directly at Clara, who is enthusiastically waving her hands about. “I’m your husband David, and you’re my beautiful wife Cassandra,” Michael slips his hand up higher, to the inside of her thigh. “In case you’ve forgotten, my love.”

Taylor lets out a breathy laugh. “If this is your idea of foreplay, you need to seriously try harder.”

Michael finally looks at her, bemused. “If you insist, baby.” His fingers trail up, bunching the fabric of Taylor’s dress. With his other hand, he noisily scrapes his fork against his plate, gathering pasta on the utensil and bringing it to Taylor’s mouth. “Eat up,” he mutters, just as one of his fingers runs over her clit.  
She tries to hide her surprise but can’t stop her eyes from widening. This is not the time nor the place, nor the man that she was expecting her next sexual encounter to be at/with. 

It’s been far too long and Taylor’s not especially fond of the idea of embarrassing herself in the middle of a job. She daintily accepts the food being offered to her and tries to avoid the sexual tension gathering in the air, terrified her face will break and everyone at the table will know that a guy she doesn’t know very well has his hand in her lace panties.

They’d think it was her husband, but it’s still socially unacceptable.

Michael rolls her clit between his forefinger and thumb while he talks to the man on his other side. Taylor tries to listen, catches a couple words but not enough to get any serious meaning. She hears her name, though, her real name, and realizes Michael has slipped.

She watches as he plays it off cool though, and the man- Gabriel, she remembers- doesn’t even seem to notice. Taylor’s about to slap Michael across the forearm and tell him to knock it off when he slips a finger inside her and oh fuck it’s been too fucking long.

“Can’t wait to wreck you, baby,” Michael whispers, dropping his fork down. The bastard’s been taking regular bites of his food like everything is normal. Taylor wants to fucking murder him. She’ll wait until after he’s made her come, though.

Taylor makes the rookie mistake of looking at him as he starts fingering her. He’s watching two attractive blondes at the other end of the table talk about a horse race they had went to the previous weekend, adding in what little information he knows about horses whenever the opportunity presents itself. They seem to be humoring him because he’s pretty, and Taylor can’t help the jealousy bubbling up in her stomach, can’t stop herself from saying something.

“Such a manwhore,” She murmurs, as seriously as she can, “checking out other women while you’ve got your finger knuckle deep in me.”

Michael looks over at her, looking way too composed. He only raises an eyebrow at her, smiles like she’s just told him how in love she is, and then slides another finger in.

Taylor grips the tablecloth, wraps her fist around the material and whines softly. The woman next to her- Marisa- looks over, concerned, but she waves her off with a flick of the hand and a “snapped my bracelet against my wrist.” 

Meanwhile, Michael’s greedily gulping down his wine and pivoting his fingers in and out of her. They must look like quite the pair. Taylor can picture what they seem like, her with flushed cheeks and him with a overwhelmingly large smirk on his face. 

Anyone with half a brain would know exactly what’s going on. Honestly, Taylor expects them to get kicked out any second.

“I hope you come all over my fingers in front of all these fancy assholes,” Michael whispers, sounding too close for there to be any discreteness in the action. “Show them how a real man treats his date.”

Taylor tries not to cry out when his fingers brush her g-spot. There’s no way in hell his fingers are long enough to do that, she’s watched them before, and yet here he is. What the fuck.

People are talking. They may or may not be talking directly to her, she doesn’t care. There’s no logical way to explain why she is so fucking okay with what’s happening or why she never, ever wants it to stop. 

Taylor tells Michael that, calls him David because she’s been dead silent for almost the entire dinner and people probably think she’s a bitch but she doesn’t fucking care, can’t care.

By the time he adds a third finger she feels so fucking full that there’s no doubt in her mind that she’s never going to be able to forget this. Or live it down. He will hold this over her head for the rest of their working relationship but again, Taylor just doesn’t fucking care. She’s practically rocking on her fingers, slowly gyrating her hips in a way that isn’t as satisfying as she wants but it’s less noticeable.

“You gonna come?” Michael asks, huskily. His eyes move from Clara to the blondes to Gabriel and finally to her.

She nods slowly, not trusting her voice. Even at a whisper volume it would probably break, betray how much control he has over her.

“Come, baby girl. Show me how good I am to you.”

And oh fuck, does she come. It’s nearly impossible for Taylor to believe it’s ever been this good, by herself or with Harry or with Joe or with any of the guys she was with during her other sexual escapades. All she can see is Michael, and stars. Godfuckingdammit this is going to be so bad tomorrow.

Her lace underwear is soaked through. 

Michael removes his fingers from her and brings them to his mouth, eyes hooded slightly. He’s hiding behind a napkin, but there’s nothing to protect Taylor from the post-orgasmic glow. 

She really fucking hates him. Or loves him. What’s the difference?

It’s not until they’re in the car after frantically rushing out with some bullshit excuse thrown at their table that Taylor realizes they definitely did not get the information they needed.

She can’t seem to find a single fuck to give, not when Michael’s hand is still caressing her slightly shaking thigh, and he’s promised to properly fuck her.

“It’s going to be a long night, princess, I sincerely hope you’re ready,” Michael says, breaking eye contact with the road to look over at her. His eyes are glazed over and she can only assume how much of a mess she is.


	4. Got My Dream Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back, yay!

The next morning, Taylor wakes up to the smell of coffee. It’s admittedly the best way to wake up after the night she had.

She gets out of bed- noting the distinct soreness- and pulls on one of the t-shirts slung over the arm chair in the corner of Michael’s room. It doesn’t smell terrible, so she trusts that it’s been washed recently.

Exiting the room, Taylor is immediately assaulted with the sound of One Direction’s new album. The kitchen seems abandoned, the only evidence that it’s been inhabited lately being a spilled box of pancake mix on the counter and Taylor’s dress from the dinner party haphazardly thrown over a lampshade. _So that’s where it went._

“Is this a joke?” She asks incredulously. 

“No, blondie, of course not,” Michael’s voice sounds from somewhere, and before Taylor can ask, he pops up from behind the counter, holding a plate of pancakes that he sets on the counter and promptly digs into.

“Why are you listening to One Direction at the age of eighteen?” Taylor says, bemused.

“Nineteen. M’birthday was yesterday.” He answers around a mouthful of pancake. Taylor watches as a string of maple syrup escapes from his mouth and Michael wipes it away with the back of his arm. Such a guy.

Taylor thinks about it for a moment, and realizes he never even mentioned his birthday. If he had, she certainly would have remembered. She loves birthdays, and buying gifts.

“And we spent it at a stuffy dinner party.. brilliant..”

“Yeah, but my date was beautiful. And I got excellent birthday sex. Thanks for that by the way.” He motions towards the pancakes, as if to say, _this is my thank you._

She makes a face, but picks up a fork and cuts a pancake into pieces anyways. “Don’t make it weird, it was just a one time thing.”

Michael laughs out loud. “You’re the one making it weird.” He looks like he’s trying not to say anything stupid, and Taylor has to admit that she appreciates the effort. “Yeah, sure princess, that’s not what you were saying last night.” He changes his voice to sound like her, although it’s way too high pitched and ends up sounding more like a cartoon character. “Oh, Mikey, you are so ruggedly handsome and you look so good on top of me!”

“I did not say that!” Taylor defends herself, even though she does remember saying the second half of the sentence somewhere between her second and third orgasm.  
“Seems you’ve got a bit of amnesia, love,” He responds, eyebrows rising and falling like he’s a villain in a 1920s gangster film. “I can remind you if you’d like.”

“Eat your fucking pancakes, Clifford, and then we can talk.” Taylor says carefully, not wanting to completely dismiss the idea.

“There won’t be a lot of talking-”

“Shut up.”

Michael lifts his hands up in surrender and focuses his attention back on the massive collection of pancakes.

They sit in comfortable silence for a little while before the sudden thought hits Taylor.

Last night they were on a mission and they not only failed but she let him finger her at the dinner table in front of very important people.

“Oh my God,” She drops the fork on the floor and holds her head in her hands.

Taylor hears Michael’s chair scrape against the tiled floor and then feels one of his arms wrap around her waist. She tries not to lean into him. “What? What’s wrong?” Damn his voice, how it can go from sarcastic to gentle in less than a minute.

“This was a mistake,” She brushes his arm off of her, stands up and briskly walks back into his bedroom. If she could just find her phone..

Michael’s bumbling steps behind her that she found endearing last night suddenly seem suffocating, like she’s being chased. “What are you talking about?” He asks, in that desperate, why-would-you-kick-the-puppy tone that Taylor hates.

“I mean, we had an assignment last night and we failed to complete it,” She pulls her phone out from underneath one of the pillows thrown towards the end of the king sized bed. “You don’t even look concerned, for some inexplicable reason.”

“Because I got my dream girl in the process!” Michael throws his hands up, and Taylor just watches as he walks around in a circle a couple times, like he’s searching for something to say. She neither has the time nor the patience for this. It’s time for her to report to headquarters and grovel and beg for a second chance at this job, and ask for another, more mature partner.

She wants to mock him for such a stupid attempt at making her fawn over him, but she doesn’t have the energy. “I’m not your dream girl, Michael. I’m twenty four and I have a better sense of responsibility in my index finger than you have in your whole body.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t be my girlfriend.” He mutters, and Taylor knows that she’s said the right thing to get him to leave her alone. For once, her skill at offending people is useful.

“Actually, that’s exactly what it means.” She walks out of his room and goes to retrieve her dress from the lamp next to the kitchen counter. 

There’s a tear at the bottom, and Taylor remembers Michael fumbling around, trying to find the zipper before saying he would buy her a thousand other, prettier dresses, and ripping the hemming of the skirt.

She tries to find a way to get the dress back on, but it’s a lost cause, not to mention the fact that Michael’s gaze is burning a hole through the back of her head. For a second she considers staying and apologizing, saying she’s just not used to this sort of thing, being independent for nearly all her life. 

But Taylor has her pride, and no one will take that away from her, especially not a nineteen-year-old, no matter how sweet and attractive he is.

“We can forget about it if you want,” Michael suggests, although it sounds forced, “I would rather forget it happened than lose you.”

“You never had me, Clifford, I’m not a possession.” The walls are starting to close in on her, and she’s worried if she looks Michael in his pretty green eyes one more time, she’ll crack.

His eyes widen, and he physically moves away from her as he verbally backpedals. “No, I never meant that, I just really like you, and I think I might-”

“Love me?” Taylor finishes his sentence. It sounds incredibly bitter coming out of her mouth.

Michael looks at her, studies her facial features for a few heavy seconds. Taylor opens her mouth again but within another moment, he’s got her up against his apartment door, arms trapping her. She can smell the maple syrup.

“Yeah,” He answers, finally. “At least I think I do.”

“That’s not how it works.” She shakes her head, or at least tries to. His face is incredibly close to hers and she can feel his cool breath fanning out on her cheek. “You’re supposed to know. It’s either you do, or you don’t.”

Michael seems taken aback by how passionate Taylor suddenly sounds. “Well,” He inhales deeply, and it might be a ploy to buy time, or to sniff her hair, she’s not sure. “I do, then.”

She just stares at him.  
“I do love you, Taylor Swift.”

The One Direction album is still playing in the background. The airy flow of the song is a stark contrast to the storm that’s brewing, swirling around them like secondhand smoke.

“And I really want to kiss you right now.” He rests his forehead on hers. 

“Can I kiss you, Taylor?” Michael whispers, and Taylor can hear the restraint contained in those five words.

“No,” She says quietly, breaks the moment into a thousand pieces of glass, even though she sincerely doesn’t want to. “you can’t.”

She closes her eyes as Michael steps back, frees her and goes to sit on the couch. “Okay.” He drums his fingers on the couch, and Taylor can so clearly see the parallel between the cocky bastard at the meeting yesterday and this. “Do you need me to call you a cab?”

“It’s alright.” Taylor smiles gently, twitches a hand and compulsively starts to play with her hair. “I’ll call a friend.”

“Okay,” Michael says. “Call me when you get home safe, please.” His head falls onto one of the throw pillows at the end of the couch, effectively ending the conversation.

Taylor nods and lets herself out, locking the door behind her.

While she waits for the first number her finger had noticed when scrolling through her contact list, Taylor pushes memories from the night before out of her head. She did the right thing, made the correct choice. She’s always made great judgment calls.This will benefit both of them even if Michael doesn’t believe it right now.

Hopefully the next time they see each other, Taylor will believe it too.


End file.
